


Shoot that darn alarm

by m_findlow



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_findlow/pseuds/m_findlow
Summary: Rift alerts suck.





	Shoot that darn alarm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badly_knitted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badly_knitted/gifts).



There's one sound Ianto hates more than any other. More than fingernails down a chalkboard, more than Gwen's attempts to carry a tune at karaoke. That sound is the beeping of Jack's vortex manipulator in the middle of the night.

It's the only sure fire thing that will wake him from even the deepest of slumbers. It's like being jolted awake with ten thousand volts of electricity. It rips through his subconscious, sleeping mind, and drags his consciousness kicking and screaming to the surface of wakefulness. The sound that follows it is usually a combination of groans from both occupants in the bed, though Jack's own grumblings don't last nearly as long. He's already out of bed and half dressed.

A rift alert in the middle of the night is the universe's cruel way of saying "no more sleep for you tonight, Mr Jones", and he's knows that's exactly what will happen. At best it will be mid morning before he can return to bed, but more than likely, he'll just keep going on with his day, forfeiting any claims to sleep that he was otherwise entitled to.

It's never something minor that sets it off in the night, like a Volvo from 1968 landing itself in the middle of Cathays. Jack has already fine tuned his nightly alarm settings to ignore anything that can wait until the morning, otherwise they'd never get any sleep. No, if his alarm has gone off, it's something they need to investigate. At the very least it's organic and alive.

Ianto wonders to himself as he's sleepily pulling on yesterday's clothes, praying Jack will say there's time for coffee, even if he has to dump it into a thermos, why the rift and all its aliens can't be more considerate. He doesn't mind them coming here, but could they at least switch their watches forward to the correct time zone? Even airports restrict arrivals in the middle of the night, so surely it's a universal courtesy? Whatever it is, he's not going to be happy about it.

Bad enough that they pull all nighters on a regular basis because Jack's decided they're not going to rest until a case is solved. Bad enough that they voluntarily forgo even more sleep when they finally get a few hours alone to be together, and Jack convinces him that sleeping would be an egregious waste of such precious time. Bad enough that he's the first one up every morning to feed all their residents, a task that no one else ever volunteers to help out with. And now this.

Rift duty is meant to be shared, but when your lover has the bat phone attached to his wrist, you always end up being the first one dragged out to investigate. If it's not deemed the end of the world, the rest of them will continue to sleep happy and warm in their beds, completely unaware of their coworkers nightly outing. It's almost sadistic pleasure when he hears Jack say the words "call the others". He feels like saying "with pleasure, sir", smiling as the first speed dial is already connecting to Owen's phone. 

And whilst he's trying to keep balance, tugging on socks that he now realises are inside out, cursing the thing that has set off the alarm, he remembers that they might not be here bent on destroying the planet. They could be lost, or hurt. Or worse, it could be a victim of the rift, spat out and returned to their home. That's when the guilt sets in. Here he was tucked up safe and cosy in bed whilst some poor soul is injured or hurt or afraid. It sobers him up immediately, quicker and more efficiently than any coffee could.

He climbs up the ladder and meets Jack with a determined look that says he's ready to go. He might hate it, but it's part of the job.


End file.
